


all these days it's been there in your eyes

by gallantrejoinder



Series: Whouffaldi Oneshots [3]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Kind of Yoga lol, More like the, Mutual Pining, Not the sexy kind so don't get too excited, Pining, Telepathy, Yoga, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 10:39:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12106920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallantrejoinder/pseuds/gallantrejoinder
Summary: Clara convinces the Doctor to try Yoga, because of course if it had been anyone else he'd have found a way to be offended at the very suggestion.But as fate would have it, the venture leads to something altogether unexpected.





	all these days it's been there in your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Delta Rae's _[You're the One for Me,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jZVC7ARQXxg)_ which is recommended listening for this fic!

He only agreed to go because Clara asked him to.

Well, more to the point, she nagged him to. For weeks on end it’s been Yoga this and Zen Karma that, and while he’s fairly sure she was joking about the latter (still so difficult to figure out expressions in this body, it’s like every creature in the universe grew an extra set of eyebrows to match his own,) she’s deadly serious about the former.

Truth be told, if he still looked like one of his other selves – the younger blokes, somewhat skinny, maybe, or blonde – he’d have done it without hesitation. Because he could have gotten away with it then. He’d’ve called it a lark and laughed at silly human approximations of forms that other species have long-since perfected into an art.

Only, this body isn’t just older in years, but in the face too. Contrary to what Clara might think, he has actually realised by now that to the pudding brains of this planet, he looks like a grandfather. (Which, of course, he is – but better not to go down that path, not ever. That door is locked up tight and will remain that way, excepting when he’s alone.)

The point being, of course, that Time Lord physiology or no – able to hold his breath for many more minutes than she can, able to sense the thoughts of others through their skin, able to see colours she cannot even imagine – he is not necessarily as flexible and as strong as he might wish to be. Or has been, when the regeneration cycle felt like gifting him with that sort of thing. And sure, his ego’s nowhere near as massive as it’s tended to get on occasion – so much hair gel _wasted_ , he shudders to think about it – but that doesn’t mean he’s eager to see the smirk on her face when she realises that all his posturing about his Gallifreyan biology doesn’t necessarily translate to being anywhere near good at the human creation of Yoga.

Nevertheless, Clara continues to insist he come with her to a session of beginners’ Yoga, saying it’ll be good for his “angry face”. As in all things, when it comes to her, eventually, he gives in.

On a drizzly evening in London, he accompanies her to a narrow brick building with a sign by the entrance for ‘All Ages Yoga’ in a garish shade of yellow. And that’s how he’s ended up in a pair of tracksuit pants and a t-shirt he didn’t even know he owned, waiting patiently on a mat right beside her. She grins something fierce in his general direction and he pretends to ignore her.

“Where’d you get the trousers?” Clara asks, raising an eyebrow.

“What, you thought I didn’t own a perfectly regular tracksuit? That’s offensive,” he scoffs, refusing to admit that he has absolutely no idea.

Actually, come to think of it, it’s possible that these clothes once belonged to _Rory_ , of all people. He’d found them in a room he’s fairly certain the Tardis simply made up for him. But then, the Tardis often makes up a room or two for his friends, and Rory was always on the slim side, and it’s more than possible that he didn’t just steal the face, but the body too, when he regenerated and saw Amy standing right there before him, as if not a day had passed, as if Clara wasn’t crying only a few steps away, begging him not to change –

No, not going there. Not today.

“Good evening, everyone. I’m glad to see so many new faces tonight! Now, we’re going to begin standing, so if you could all move to the front of your mats –”

If there’s one thing he’s bad at, it’s following instructions, so he begrudgingly follows the rest of the class in stepping forward, but refuses to go all the way, because he’s petty. Clara rolls her eyes at him, but then is forced to look away as they turn their necks this way and that, stretching out their muscles. Well, she shouldn’t have expected him to _enjoy_ being told what to do by some strange human who doesn't understand anything about Time Lord anatomy and thinks he needs to balance his Chakras.

His Chakras are perfectly in balance. He checked a few weeks ago with the witch up near one of River’s favourite haunts.

At any rate, at first he’s fine. He feels smugly self-assured that he won’t need to go again, and Clara has most certainly not won this one. Unfortunately, though, within ten minutes they start on some more difficult poses – and when he first attempts to lunge into warrior one, his knee lets out a pop approximately as powerful as a small sonic boom.

He doesn’t blush, of course, because he’s above that sort of thing. But Clara turns her head in his direction and raises both eyebrows, without saying a word, and that’s enough to leave him feeling at least a _little_ sour.

He focuses on her instead of his own humiliation. Clara’s been doing it for long enough that she already knows most of the poses, and doesn’t need to look at the instructor. Worse still, she’s actually _good_ at most of them. It leaves him feeling even more chagrined when she manages to roll onto her upper back, legs high above her head, and he can’t even trust his bones to get into the position in the first place.

Curiously, though, when the instructor mentions going into some balance poses, a thunderous look comes over her face. It’s difficult to keep an eye on her now, seeing as he needs to focus on copying the instructor in the unfamiliar poses, surprisingly complex now. Nevertheless, he manages to sneak a peek out of the corner of his eye at her, and is surprised to find her wobbling like a leaf on one foot, a scowl etched in her features as she struggles to stay upright.

Well, he might not have been able to get his foot all the way up his thigh for tree pose, but he at least can maintain the position without falling. That one isn’t Time Lord biology, just luck. If he’d attempted this in his previous body, he’s just about certain that serious injury for himself and others would have been the result.

Clara, though – he thinks it must be some problem with her feet. Her toes flex and strain on the mat with desperation as she keeps dropping to the side. _Flat feet_ , he thinks. Of course she can’t do it.

It’s almost amusing to realise that this class, which the Doctor’s pretty sure is meant to promote relaxation and reasonable fitness, has become a source of competition for Clara. He’s not sure what else he expected from her, but he finds it – endearing, actually.

The session moves towards a close without either of them speaking, but he’s sure she’ll want to know about what he thought afterwards. He almost wishes that she wouldn’t, give how oddly calm his mind’s been throughout the whole thing, but alas, he knows he’ll give her what she wants.

“Okay, class, now it’s time for our final meditation.”

Right, speaking. Humans are always doing that. He should be paying attention.

“I want you to lie very still, with your hands out by your sides, palms up. Let all the tension in your body go.”

The Doctor resists the urge to roll his eyes. Humans are _also_ always needing to be reminded not to let their body do things without their permission, like tense up, or fall down. As a Time Lord he’d never let his body do anything without his permission.

Or, well – no, the regeneration doesn’t really count, he thinks. He’s fairly certain, at least.

The instructor steps quietly across the room, and switches off a light in the hallway, before making her way back. The sudden darkness isn’t so much a problem for the Doctor, of course, but he’s still surprised when she flicks another switch twice without any other changes in the darkness.

“Apologies, class. The fairy lights appear to have finally died on us. If there’s no objections, we’ll proceed with meditation in the dark?”

There are murmurs of agreement, but the Doctor’s ears can’t detect Clara joining in. _Interesting_.

“Okay. Now, focus on the soles of your feet. Make sure you’re resting comfortable against the floor. Feel yourself being anchored exactly where you are … No worries, no troubles …”

She’s adopted a soothing, soft, low voice for the guided meditation. The Doctor wonder briefly whether she’s not actually someone only disguised as a human, because it works remarkably well on his nervous system, calming him down in an instant. He’s sure if he gave himself a minute to think about it he could recall the species of the universe capable of hypnotising a Time Lord.

“Feel your spine sinking into the floor. If you need to, clench your fists and then relax them again. There should be no tension in your fingers or wrists.”

The Doctor does as he’s asked, finding to his surprise that he’s actually managing to relax. It’s an eerie and unfamiliar sensation. He meditates, certainly, but … Even alone, it’s difficult to stop his mind from whirling about.

It’s just as he’s thinking that he ought to offer this woman a quick trip in the Tardis as thanks that he hears it.

A tiny shift beside him. Clara, brushing her arm against the floor.

“Relax your face. Keep your forehead clear.”

His skin prickles, sensing her arm moving closer. He’ll never get to meditating if she insists on –

“Focus on your breathing. Keep it slow and deep.”

– And then the back of her hand brushes his.

Everything goes very still.

“Let go of all your stresses and worries. Let go of all your grief and pain.”

Her hand rests heavily against his. Slowly – the kind of slow one uses with a startled animal, the kind of slow that is reserved for the most delicate kind of fragility – she nudges him.

He opens his palm without thinking.

“In this room, we remember that we’re not alone.”

She threads her fingers through his, and it feels like instinct. Perhaps it is. One thing they never quite got done with, when he regenerated, was the hand-holding. He convinced himself it was a necessity – she’s so short, he’s so tall, and there’s so much running to do –

“Often we get caught up in the little things, in our day-to-day. That’s why we come here, to centre ourselves again.”

He refrains from reading her thoughts, her emotions, of course. However difficult it’s become to read people’s voice and faces with this body, he’s never resorted to invading their privacy without their permission. He keeps his own walls up. Clara, being human, has none at all.

“We focus in on what’s important, on breathing. Just being here, in this room.”

Her hand is warm. That makes sense, doesn’t it? Right, yes of course it does. She’s human, her circulation – the exercise –

She runs her thumb along the back of his hand and he loses his train of thought.

“In and out. Just breathe.”

The darkness! Of course. It’s the darkness – her poor, human eyes are unable to adjust to the lack of light, and she’s afraid. She’s holding his hand because she’s afraid and he’s there. Except, then he remembers –

 _I may be a teeny, tiny bit terrified, but I’m still a grown up. There’s no need to_ actually _hold my hand_.

All right, that theory’s bunkum. He’s going to forget that theory, he’s going to absolutely pretend that theory never even crossed his mind.

“Let everything fall away. Think of nothing at all. The thoughts passing through are just passing through. Let them go.”

Her hand is so warm, and he doesn’t understand.

“Ah- _CHOO_!”

A violent sneeze from across the room startles him out of his reverie, and in the split second before Clara lets go of his hand, he drops his shields and _sees_.

_Affection. Fear. Fondness. Bravery. Anxiety. Longing. Comfort. Lo–_

They are separated once more.

There’s a small smattering of laughter across the room, as the culprit of the sneeze apologises, embarrassed. The instructor settles them back down, finishes the meditation.

Clara doesn’t take his hand. Nor does he discover that peaceful floating place again.

The lights come on, afterwards, and Clara sits up, bowing to the instructor calmly, before rolling her mat up into a cylinder. He follows along, unable to stop staring at her.

It’s not often he’s speechless. He doesn’t like the feeling.

Afterwards, they walk out into the cool night air in silence. The stars above can’t be seen in the light pollution of London skies, but he feels them anyway. The Tardis is parked only a few streets away, and the walk feels endless.

Clara clears her throat.

“So, what did you think? Told you it’d be good.”

“It was all right,” he admits, wrinkling his nose in distaste for good measure.

“I heard your knees popping, don’t pretend like you weren’t impressed!” Her voice is indignant, and he fights the urge to smile.

“Well, maybe. I thought it was supposed to be all _zen_ , that’s the word you kept using. You didn’t seem very _zen_ when you had to balance on one foot.”

Clara’s jaw tightens. “Yeah, well, that part’s just for stupidly flexible people. I’m still better than _you_ at everything else.”

“I knew you’d find a way to make it competitive,” he teases.

“Oh, come on. Everyone knows Yoga’s just a way to prove how much more healthy and body-conscious you are than the next bloody healthy body-conscious person on a mat.”

“Well, you’re the expert.”

She laughs, more freely than she usually would. For a moment he almost forgets what happened.

The feeling of her thumb against the back of his hand.

It’s his turn to clear his throat.

“Clara –”

“Oh, don’t,” she interrupts, her voice thick with something he doesn’t know how to identify. “Can we just … how about we don’t?”

The words do something peculiar to him. He can’t identify it. His ribcage aches a little, and there’s a sensation in his throat, like pain, but able to transform into something else, if only he can figure out the words. They’re almost back at the Tardis. It sits in an alleyway, waiting for them.

“I only …”

He can’t figure out what, exactly, he’s trying to convey. He knows the shape of it, the feeling. The sensation in his bones. But he can’t say it.

She’s looking pointedly away from him, swallowing hard. There’s a trembling in her mouth that, for once, he doesn’t have to translate. Five foot one and crying; he, of course, does not stand a chance against it.

He stops.

“Clara,” he says, trying to make his voice, harsh as it can be, sound gentle.

She’s stopped too, but still won’t look at him.

“Clara,” he repeats.

She turns her face towards him. Expressions are difficult, yes, but he knows her. This is determination. This is refusing to lose. This is his Clara.

He leans down and takes her hand. It’s a gentle hold, in its way, but firm too. A promise.

She swallows, again. They don’t start moving and give themselves an excuse to continue touching, and he knows it’s because neither of them want to. The leftover quiet of the meditation is making everything seem very still and safe, even as he feels her pulse thunder against his fingertips in her palm.

Without daring to let himself think about it, he leans in. She watches him until the last moment, and he returns her gaze. But he is the one to close his eyes first as he leans his forehead against hers.

She takes a shuddering breath, and he reaches up, with his free hand, to touch her cheek. She mirrors the gesture, and it surprises him, for a moment. But humans do that sort of thing, don’t they? There’s no telepathy in it for them, they simply do it because it’s gentle. Because it makes them feel less alone.

They rest against one another in the alleyway, the smell of rain against their skin, their breath coming in soft white clouds. The moment hangs in the air like a string, stretched between them, near to breaking all the time.

That could be it. That could be as far as it goes, as much as they allow themselves with all the grief and longing, the fury and the frustration and the betrayal that’s passed between them. It would not be the first time he has refused to allow himself anything else, because it means more to be taken away. There are men locked away inside him who understand the agony of watching his lovers die, and leave, and be left.

But he is the man who stands with Clara tonight.

Her hand slips down to his neck, and he understands. She pulls him in, and he knows, consciously, that he wants to be pulled in.

She kisses him, and for a moment, everything dissolves inside his mind, and he feels nothing but his joy and her own, intermingling until he cannot tell them apart anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> *Banging pots and pans* A HYBRID!!!
> 
> Well, who's proud of me for finally writing a fic where they actually kiss? 
> 
> ... Anyone?
> 
> Anyways. First time I write a male POV for a fic, and it's not even properly male, it's a nonbinary alien, lol. This fic was inspired by the lights going out at Yoga class and me thinking 'huh, you could totally hold hands right now and nobody would know.' Then I remembered Whouffaldi, and well ... here we are. 
> 
> BTW, the thing about Clara being unable to do the balance poses is inspired by yours truly. I have flat feet and Yoga really strains my arches, making those poses really difficult to maintain. I find it very frustrating. So does Clara. (I have no idea if Jenna has flat feet though.)
> 
> Let me know what you thought!
> 
> [My Tumblr.](https://gallantrejoinder.tumblr.com/)


End file.
